


Veslingr: Part One

by dungeoncruller



Series: Veslingr [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Child Loss, Coming of Age, Depression, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Khajiit - Freeform, Khajiit has many wares, Life on the Road, M/M, Ma'dran - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Multi, Origin Story, Other, Puberty, Ra'zhinda, Skyrim Civil War, Skyrim is for the Nords, Ta'agra, Trade Caravans, farm life, humble beginnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-04-28 11:25:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14448282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dungeoncruller/pseuds/dungeoncruller
Summary: By Jode and Jone, what was he to do? It had been only a week passed since… Since… Ma’dran sighed and pinched his fingers to his brow. They should have turned back the moment of her condition showing, but no, Tawana had insisted. Ri’saad had promised them riches and a new life in Skyrim, free from the struggles of Cyrodiil and endless sands of Elsweyr. What better chance, she had said, would their young have if they stayed?What fools they had been.





	1. By Jode and Jone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited to share this story with all of you, it has been bouncing around in my head for years! It isn't a happy story, mind you, but hopefully things will end without complete tragedy... I'm just getting back into the writing game, so please bear with me as I find my feet.
> 
> Without further ado, I present to you the first part of Veslingr.

**CHAPTER ONE: BY JODE AND JONE**

* * *

 

**4E 177, early Morning Star**

Ma’dran sat deep in thought, claws idly stroking his whiskers. Sparks danced amongst the flames before him, the campfire burning steadily as the smell of roasting rabbit permeated the air. Across from him sat his sunej-ari, the mate of his heart. Clutched to her breast, a small, bundle wrapped within soft furs, suckled intently. By Jode and Jone, what was he to do? It had been only a week passed since…since… Ma’dran sighed and pinched his finger to her brow. They should have turned back the moment of her condition showing, but no, Tawana had insisted. Ri’saad had promised them riches and a new life in Skyrim, free from the struggles of Cyrodiil and endless sands of Elsweyr. What chance, she had said, would their young have than if they stayed? What fools they had been.

Grabbing a stick, he irritably jabbed at the logs, disrupting the embers beneath, shooting flickering sparks further into the air. Another of his companions had now joined them at the fire, checking the state of their roasting dinner before sitting down next to Tawana. Ra’zhinda stuck her legs out before her and stretched her toes, the popping of joints loud enough to be heard over the crackling flames.

“And what name would this one have, hmm?” Ra’zhinda’s voice was smooth as silk, speaking softer than usual as not to disturb the nursing babe. “Ra’zhinda swears she has never seen a ma’tasmiit so small! How large they grow from such tiny things.”

Listening intently from across the fire, Ma’dran waited, unsure of how Tawana would respond. What would his mate do? To claim this child so early was foolhardy, especially a child of its condition. He felt a sharp twinge deep within his chest, the painful sensation of grief creeping back once more to the forefront of his mind.

“Tawana is unsure such things are wise, Ra’zhinda.” Tawana’s ears drooping with sadness, “This one knows the folly of growing attached to young so early.”

“Ridiculous!” Guffawed Ra’zhinda. “To allow heartache of loss to threaten the love of another… Have the Mother Cat’s teachings been lost on you? Love must overcome sadness, for without love there can be no joy. Ra’zhinda knows Tawana’s pain, for she and Ma’dran share in it too!”

Breaking his silence, Ma’dran stood and joined the two women on the other side of the fire, stepping deftly over Ra’zhinda’s extended legs to sit beside his mate. “And what would you have Tawana do? Hmm?” He said, ears twisting angrily. “Our sunej-ari hurts deeply, show some care—!”

Still holding the infant tightly, Tawana rose to her feet. With an angry swish of her tail she stalked away to the direction of the tent, turning before the entrance. Ma’dran and Ra’zhinda both could see the wet lines that ran down her cheeks, creating small furrows in her golden fur. Opening her mouth, as if to say something, she thought better of it and quickly closed it again, turned once more and disappeared behind the flap of the tent. Tawana did not join them for the rest of the night. Although soft cries could be heard from within, neither of the two khajiit dared go to the grieving mother. No comfort they could provide would ease the passing of her grief better than that of the babe in her arms.

 

* * *

 

**4E 177, Sun’s Dusk**

“We have no choice. When he returns…”

The short, brunette woman paced before her lover, wringing her small hands, her face fraught with despair. Suddenly, she paused before him, grabbing both his hands, thin arms reaching around her large, pregnant belly. “If you don’t go, he’ll kill you for sure.”

The now all too familiar sensation of tears prickling in her eyes. Never before coming to this place had she known such sadness, not even with the death of her own parents. She allowed herself to be pulled into his lap, her arms clutching about his neck as she began to weep once more.

“What sort of man would I be if I left you Silla? To let you face him alone, what would you even tell him?” Resting his face in the crook of her shoulder, he sighed deeply. “What lie could you possibly spin that would explain this?” At the question, he moved one large, callused hand to rest firmly upon her swollen stomach. “It has been five years since he left you for that college, did he really expect you to put your life on hold while he pursued his foolish fancies?”

“You don’t understand,” She whispered. “You’ll never understand.”

 

* * *

 

**4E 177, mid Evening Star**

Ra’zhinda was no midwife, that was as certain as the moons and tides. Her true calling was the blade, a warrior through and through. So, when Tawana’s time had come, and Ma’dran had busied himself with setting up the great furred tent, she was at a complete loss. It was too soon, too sudden. Life on the road had prepared her for many hardships. She had seen bodies, bones and all manner of gore. The spilling lifeblood of men, some by her own hand, had never caused her great discomfort. But this! To see her dear friend and travelling companion in such pain. The smell of blood and uncertainty hung thick in the air, pierced by Tawana’s wails and cries as she struggled to bring forth the life that had grown within her. It was too much. Ra’zhinda fled; running as fast as her legs could take her, hoping to come across someone— _anyone_ —on the road ahead who could help Tawana and her soon-to-be child.

It was by pure chance that she had come to find Ahkari and her caravan, the old khajiit woman and her party heading south down the snowy roads towards the Rift. It took no convincing at all to have the older woman accompany her back down the road to camp. The caravan would follow, though they would be slowed down by their wares. It was a great relief to see that the shrewd older khajiit knew exactly what to do, having given birth to several children of her own over her long years. Upon arriving, she had sent Ra’zhinda for hot water and rags, hoping the foolish girl would calm once given proper direction.

Ma’dran was beside himself, staring anxiously at the tent in which his heart’s mate lay within. Her cries! He was not new to such things, he had grown up with a large family with many siblings, but to be denied access and forced to wait— _to ignore_ —the wails and moans of his beloved sunej-ari! It was almost too much to bear. At least the arrival of his kin had proven comforting, he prayed that this good fortune would last.

The fire built, carts unhitched, and mules taken care of, the combined members of both trade caravans settled in to their camp for a night of waiting. A great pot of fondue had been started, watched closely by a young woman Ma’dran knew as Zaynabi. A jar of sujamma appeared seemingly out of nowhere and was being passed around the fire. In all, there were five seated around campfire’s glow. Stories were shared and bowls of fondue passed, the mood was light and did wonders to settle Ma’dran’s nerves. It had been many moons since he had last shared a fire with kinsmen beyond the members of his own caravan.

At last, a new sound, harkened by the absence of Tawana’s cries, could be heard. The great furred flaps on the tent opening to reveal a rather pleased looking Ahkari. After wiping the remnants of her task from her hands she tossed the rag into the flames and took a good, long swig of the sujamma. She beckoned Ma’dran to come, walking back towards the tent. Rising on shaky legs, he followed the older cat into the dimly lit tent. Several lanterns flickered as he entered, but his eyes were quick to adjust, and even quicker to seek out Tawana. Dropping to his knees next to her, he softly butted his forehead against hers, sharing breath and support with the affectionate gesture. Once satisfied with her safety, he watched her arms raise slightly towards him, holding within a bundled of cloth an impossibly small, perfectly formed khajiit baby.

Covered in soft golden fuzz, the babe clearly took after his mother. Two small, equally fuzzy ears moved ever so slightly, twitching at the sounds of Tawana’s voice. He was wrapped in a dark green cloth, woven with pale threads depicting the ever-changing faces of the Moons. This brought Ma’dran, already bursting with joy to an impossible feeling of happiness. His own mother had woven this herself, gifting it to Tawana on the eve of their rejizeva’a. It had been a precious wedding gift, now made all the more by the one who lay within it.

Seeing his eyes fill with such joy made Tawana’s heart soar. Ri’saad had promised riches in this new land, and he had certainly been right. This bundle of gold held greater promise than anything she could have dreamed of. She let Ma’dran take him from her arms, helping him adjust his hands to properly support the infant and noting how delicately he held their newborn son. Much like herself, Ma’dran obviously thought that he was the most precious thing in all of Nirni.

“This one would like you to meet your son.” Tawana’s voice was far raspier than normal, but her words still rang clear. There was a note of pride in her tone. “Jobal, brightest light of this one’s eyes.”

“Jobal.” Ma’dran repeated softly, finger reaching out to stroke his fuzzy, golden brow, still in complete awe of the babe in his arms. “ma’Jobal.”

Ahkari slipped quietly out of the tent, leaving the new parents to bask in the joy of the life they had brought into the world. She took a place at the fire alongside her kinsmen, weary yet satisfied. Patting the leg of Ra’zhinda beside her, in a reassuring gesture, she looked around the fire at her companions with a smile. “Ma’dran and Tawana, by the grace of ja’Kha’jay, they have a son!” She accepted a mug passed to her, full of sweet alto wine. Together, they raised their glasses high under the light of the moons, toasting the birth of the infant khajiit, first born since the caravans had come to Skyrim.

 

* * *

 

**4E 177, late Evening Star**

In the end, Agnar had left her after all. Called away to war. He couldn’t refuse the command of his superior officers. She had begged him, pleaded with him to take her along, but the frontlines were no place for pregnant women, nor the birthing of a babe. He had barely been gone a week before the contractions had started. Too early, she thought. Grimly, Silla hoped for her death, and with it that of her child. The baby would have no place in her world once he returned from the college. Her lover would surely die in battle, fighting a war that knew no end, never knowing his child’s face.

In her hopelessness, she refused to seek aid, instead choosing to tempt fate and deal with the delivery on her own. Of course, the Gods seemed to have a greater plan. Not only had she survived, but the child was in perfect health; wispy blonde hair and deep blue eyes a clear indication of her Agnar’s Nord heritage. Scowling at the tiny form she had swaddled in rags, an insipid reminder of her lover’s absence, she hated the child. It had ruined everything. EVERYTHING. Her life was in shambles, a total wreck. All the fault of this horrid little creature before her. By the Eight, she would need to be rid of it all. Her heart was aching for freedom from the crushing confines of the bleakness that lay ahead.

 

* * *

 

**4E 178, early Morning Star**

Ahkari and her caravan had left several weeks ago, parting ways with Ma’dran as the paths they travelled diverged. Her route led south to the cities of the Rift, while his to the east near the northern borders of Morrowind. Forever grateful he would be for her kindness and friendship during the three days she had stayed with Tawana and the newborn, ensuring the new parents could comfortably take care of their infant son before departing. Both parties had been sad to see the other go, for life on the harsh roads of Skyrim offered little in the means of company from their own people. Travel notes had been compared and plans made, which hopefully would lead to future roadside reunions between the wandering traders.

Still days away from their destination of Windhelm, hoping to pick up an order of weaponry and sell off a large stock of goods from High Rock, it had started. Tawana noticed the cough first. It had barely been a full day before ma’Jobal had become woefully ill, stricken down by what Ra’zhinda swore up and down to be a case of the cradle rattles. They ended their travel early that day, hoping time off the road and rest would help restore his health.

The following morning, they did not break camp. Tawana was a wreck, as were Ma’dran and Ra’zhinda. None of them had gotten any sleep that night, Tawana and Ma’dran from watching over the sick infant, and Ra’zhinda from keeping watch throughout the night. The cough had worsened into a chest-rattling bark. With every exhale, a high-pitched wheezing emitted from the babe’s failing lungs. By nightfall a fever had taken hold of ma’Jobal. Not knowing what else to do, Ra’zhinda took to the roads once more seeking aid, praying to the Mother Cat with every step that help would show itself. As she ran, a thick snow began to fall, obscuring her path. And yet Ra’zhinda continued, knowing the fate of sick, young ma’Jobal was dependent on her.

 

* * *

 

**4E 178, mid Morning Star**

The winds whipped about Silla’s skirts, brown hair loosening from its braids to plaster against her face and neck. In the crook of her arm, a woven basket filled with rags. Tucked in down the side, a collection of letters and notes, tied together within a worn hide wrap. Steeling herself, she stepped up higher onto the battlement and looked below. The swirling icy waters of the White River met her gaze several hundred feet beneath her crumbling perch. In the distance, the slow ascent of the dawning sun was making itself known, beginning to glow softly behind the mountains. In the end, what did she really have to lose? Did she even care? Hardly.

> _I am not well._  
>  Please come home.  
>  -L

She thought on the letter she had sent last night, knowing it would be days, weeks before it reached him. The College of Winterhold stood on the northern precipice of Skyrim, a battered bastion against the eternal onslaught of the Sea of Ghosts. Few ships travelled the treacherous, rocky waters beneath the college. Fewer still dared make port. She could only hope that the courier would chose a fast route, it was too late now to send word with one of the trade ships.

Grasping the handle of the basket, she held it before her, stretching her arm as far over the edge as she dared. Closing her eyes to draw three shaky breaths was all it took to garner her strength and release her hold. Refusing to watch the descent of her parcel, the woman turned, intent on returning home.

Suddenly, a great wind bore down upon her, strong as the breath of Kyne herself. It caught hold of her heavy linen gown, much like a sail netting winds, throwing the woman off balance. Before she could right herself, Silla slipped and fell over the edge. It would be at least an hour before her body would be found, smashed and broken upon a great chunk of ice that had borne down from the Sea of Ghosts.

It was an argonian youngling, playing upon the icy docks who would discover Silla. Dancing along in a ragged skirt, the girl skipped across the cold stones beneath her scaly feet with a necklace swinging in her hand. Holding it to her face, she marveled at how the morning rays reflected off the surface of her amulet, catching upon the silver swirling design of Zenithar’s sigil. Her mother had given her leave to play for a few hours and she did not intend to waste it. It was a rare chance indeed for the girl to spend time having fun, pursuing activities typically denied by a poverty-stricken childhood.

Shahvee had never been a troublesome child, not even as a hatchling. So, when she let forth a bone-chilling, ear-splitting scream at the sight the bloody, mangled body of an Imperial woman upon an icy, gore-spattered berg, it was with great haste that her mother tore across the stone embankment to find her daughter.

 

* * *

 

**4E 178 early Morning Star, continued**

The night sky was dark, a thin red slice of Masser barely visible through the heavy clouds above. Secunda had risen dark, a mere shadow within the heavens, completely invisible to those who lived in the lands below. Ra’zhinda huffed solemnly, watching as her breath took frosted form. Pulling her cloak tightly about her shoulders, she settled further into her seat before the waning campfire and thought on recent events with a heavy heart.

Jobal, the beacon of hope that had shone forth in this wretched, snowy wasteland, had been extinguished. She had failed. No help had been found on the road, not a soul had been out on that dark night of heavy snows and piercing cold. A single tear fell from her eye, freezing to ice along with its predecessors upon Ra’zhinda’s furry cheek. Sweet ma’Jobal, who had lit their lives so brightly, yet so briefly. Snuffed out like a candle’s flame before the first drops of wax could even fall. By Jode and Jone, what matter of daedric scourge had brought this misfortune upon them?

Ma’dran had been inconsolable the first night, but in the days that followed he bore his grief silently beneath a schooled mask of indifference. He had needed to be strong for Tawana. His sunej-ari, the mate of his heart, was a ghost of her former self. She had stood silently as Ma’dran had buried Jobal, a small cairn of piled stone beneath the stunted pines and craggy rocks. Ra’zhinda had spoken the words of their homeland, said prayers of the Mother Cat and Alkosh to guide the spirit of ma’Jobal to the sands beyond. With no reason to remain any longer, the small caravan had continued on their route eastwards. Ma’dran implored his Gods with constant, silent prayer—please let their weary, wounded hearts heal quickly.

Fluttering softly in the winter winds, held fast by the stone cairn waved a green cloth threaded with golden moons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge shout out to The Ta'agra Project, I love your dictionary!
> 
> A few translations for you fine folks:  
> sunej-ari - heart’s love  
> ma’khajiit - infant, child (Khajiit)  
> ma’tasmiit - infant, child (Nord)  
> tawana - balance  
> jobal - bright  
> ma’jobal - little bright one
> 
> In other news... please point out any spelling errors or grammar issues! I have no beta as of yet, so I might not catch everything.


	2. The Mother Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick scan of the camp quickly informed Ma’dran that, despite the clear evidence of her hard work, Tawana was nowhere to be found. He stroked his whiskers, tugging them downwards with unease as he surveyed the clearing a second time.

**CHAPTER TWO: THE MOTHER CAT**

* * *

  **4E 178, mid Morning Star, continued**

Two cloaked figures crossed the great stone bridge that stretched across the flowing waters of the White River. Far, far below, sheets of ice clung to snow covered banks, occasional pieces jaggedly breaking off to journey further downstream. Lead by the taller of the two, a pair of hardy mules bearing a loaded cart plodded dutifully behind them. Despite being wrapped securely with cloth and thick hempen rope, the load swayed treacherously as wooden wheels caught upon irregular cobbles. Finally, the small party reached a large set of imposing banded iron doors, flanked by a pair of guards bundled tightly in cloaks and furs.

“If you’re here for sight-seeing,” The guardsman gestured at the door with his lance, eyes narrowed in contempt through the visor of his helm. “Then you’ve seen the sights. Might as well go _elsewhere_ , cat. The city of Windhelm has no place for _your_ kind.” His cold blue eyes glimmered with malevolence.

“Elsweyr, hah!” His fellow laughed, her voice thick with a distinctly Nordic accent. She stood a full head and shoulders taller than the larger of the two travelers, matched in height and bulk by her equally blond, fair-skinned partner. Both wore cloth of deep blue over their armor, distinguishing their position as guards of Eastmarch Hold. “Always got a good one, eh Ern?”

Ma’dran could not believe his ears. Ri’saad had assured him that the city would open its doors, that he would be able to make trade with the merchants within. The weapon order that waited, the shipment from High Rock he had borne all the way from the docks of Solitude! And now, to be turned away at the gates, so close to his goal. Scowling, ears flattening with displeasure beneath his hood, he fervently implored the guardsmen before him.

“Please sir, listen! This one has travelled far to deliver such goods! And this,” He gestured a parchment he withdrew from within his cloak. “This rifti, this agreement promises—!” Behind him, he could hear Ra’zhinda attempting to soothe the mules that pulled their carted good. They were growing agitated by the raised voices, which echoed along the tall walls of the bridge. One stomping nervously upon the paved stones, long ears flicking in annoyance.

“And I said scat, cat. Your kind are not welcome within our walls, we have no time for your tales or trinkets. More likely than not stolen, knowing your lot.” He warily eyed the cart and its teetering load, his grip on his lance grew tighter as he loomed menacingly towards Ma’dran. “Of course, I could arrange for a visit to the Bloodworks, if you are so insistent on entering…”

“Not necessary my friend, not necessary!” Ma’dran conceded. “This one obviously must have made some error. May your roads led to warms sands, jetwijijri.” Ma’dran bowed deeply before taking his leave, muttering under his breath as he stalked back across the great stone bridge. “And may your knees be riddled with arrows.”

Ra’zhinda pulled the mules along, following swiftly, but steadily after Ma’dran. It seemed that luck would not grace the weary travelers any time soon. She wondered to herself, what they had done to deserve such misfortune. What further punishment could the Gods arrange, had they not suffered enough?

It took nearly half an hour to for the disheartened travelers to arrive at the shaded grove of pine where the third member of the trade caravan waited. Tawana had been busy in their absence, Ma’dran noted fondly. Their large, fur-covered tent had been erected and a bubbling pot of vegetable stew sat over a roaring campfire.

The tent had served them well in the harsh, unforgiving climate of northern Skyrim. Made of elk hides laced together with sinew threads, it would provide excellent warmth throughout even the coldest nights. The furred sides of the pelts faced out to retain heat, taking advantage of the natural insulating properties of the elk hairs. Held aloft by several bent poles of flexible willow that curved over to support the heavy bulk, the tent stood high enough that even the tall Ra’zhinda’s ears would barely skim the ceiling. A cured bearskin hung across the opening, blocking out the winds to ensure none of the precious heat would be lost.

A quick scan of the camp quickly informed Ma’dran that despite the clear evidence of her hard work, Tawana was nowhere to be found. He stroked his whiskers, tugging them downwards with unease as he surveyed the clearing a second time. Ra’zhinda was already unhitching the mules, tying them to a nearby tree before throwing thick woolen blankets over them in anticipation for the coming night. Her task complete, she dusted off her paws in a clapping motion and made to sit before the fire, only to be halted as she took notice of Ma’dran’s clear distress.

“Perhaps Tawana has gone to collect more wood?” She offered reassuringly, ears disclosing her belayed concern. She lifted the lid of the pot, inspecting the contents within and noting a loaf of crusty bread had been left nearby to reheat upon a flat rock beside the flames. Gesturing to the stew, she continued. “This has not been left long, Ma’dran. Tawana must be nearby.”

Ma’dran sighed heavily, shoulders slumping in defeat, tail hanging limply beneath his cloak. The Mother Cat only knows where his sunej-ari had gone. Since the loss of ma’Jobal, she had been unusually reserved, talking little and taking too long, wandering walks. He tried his best to be strong for the both of them despite his own inner feelings of grief, but Tawana more and more sought solitude over the company of her mate.

Both khajiit stared solemnly into the blazing flames of the campfire, an unspoken prayer shared for their troubled companion.

 

* * *

Not far from the pine grove, Tawana walked purposefully to the rocky, snow-covered beach of the river. Bucket in hand, she bent over to fill the vessel, only to stop in sheer disbelief. There, caught against an outcropping of ice along the edge of the river, her yellow eyes widened as she noticed something odd. Buffeted by the current of the frigid waters, rocking gently from side to side, was a small, woven basket. It was then that Tawana’s ears perked up, catching the low, almost inaudible sound of whimpering.  Scrambling upright, bucket now upturned and forgotten upon the pebbles, Tawana scurried across the rocky beach towards the basket. Dropping to her knees, she boldly crawled across the ice and stretched out to pluck object from the icy waters. 

At sudden, loud crack beneath her, Tawana cursed and tucked the bundled under her arm. Scrambling back hastily from the water’s edge, she was just in time to see the ice break apart and begin to float downstream. She swallowed, knowing how lucky she had been. In her travels with the caravan, she had heard many stories of unfortunate men and mer who perished after falling through ice, their bodies only recovered during the spring thaws, if at all. A shiver ran across her back at the thought, causing her fur to bristled uncomfortably under her clothes.

Tawana looked down at the basket in her arms and nearly dropped it in shock. There, nestled within soaking rags, a scrap of soaked hide and pulpy, wet clumps of ruined parchment, lay a small, blonde, human baby. Its skin was nearly red from the cold, bluing around the lips and small, chubby fingers. Small, light-colored eyes blinked feebly as they struggled to take in the feline face that peered inquisitively down at it.

“Ma’tasmiit.” She thought wonderingly. “What is this little one doing, so lost, so far from home?” Carefully, Tawana untangled the child from the waterlogged basket and checked over the babe’s pink, nude body. “Illiten ma’tasmiit than, a little girl man-cub.” As if responding to her statement, the infant gave a great sneeze and shuddered slightly. Tawana opened her thickly layered robes and rest the babe snuggly upon her breast.

The infant’s skin was frigid, ice cold to the touch. This brought another cautionary tale to Tawana’s mind. On the roads she had heard stories of the frostdød, a fatal condition that struck those ignorant of just how treacherous Skyrim’s northern winters could be. Only those who carried the blood of the Atmorans, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim, were said to be able to withstand such a fate. Tawana was almost certain this child carried that same bloodline, for surely none other could have withstood the icy waters of the White River. 

Tawana adjusted her robes and wraps to better support her precious cargo. The babe had nestled comfortably into the soft, warm fur of her chest, small body absorbing much needed heat. Climbing up the embankment, Tawana moved swiftly in the direction of the pine grove with long, determined strides. The sooner she was back to camp and the fire’s radiant glow, the better.

“I will not lose you, ma’illiten,” She spoke firmly. “I will _not_ lose another.”

 

* * *

 It was the soft crunch of snow that had his ears swiveling towards the woods beyond the grove. Ma’dran looked up and into the tree line. Dusk had come, and with it the landscape had transformed into a vibrant world of color. The snow seemed to glow with oranges and reds, crisscrossed by the dusky blues and violets of shadows cast by nearby trees of the coniferous forest. It was through these shadows that Tawana emerged, her golden fur catching the dying light of the sun’s final rays. She shone with an ethereal glow, striking a figure that had Ra’zhinda double-take, initially mistaking her for the Mother Cat herself. Both rose to their feet in an instant, rushing over to Tawana.

It was her posture, no longer hunched and defeated, that immediately alerted her companions. Something was different, but what had changed since they last saw Tawana mere hours before? Now Tawana stood tall, her eyes bright and ears skywards, a smile stretching across her furry lips. Clasping a hand on either of their shoulders, she led them back towards the fireside.

The two of the three khajiit, all whom where now seated around the fire on soft woven reed mats, eyed the third incredulously. Pulling back her fur wraps, she untied the robes beneath to reveal a tiny, hairless infant. Small, chubby fingers clutched at the golden fur of her chest. A dusting of pale blonde hair could just be made out upon its head. Tawana brought up a hand and stroked delicately along the baby’s jawline, her yellow eyes gazing adoringly at the small creature.

“What… How?” Ra’zhinda could not believe her eyes, mind desperately trying to reach for reason, and finding none.

“Tawana, sunej-ari—” Ma’dran was dumbfounded.

“Hush ahziss-tot, Ra’zhinda.” Tawana begrudgingly tore her gaze from the babe to look upon the faces of companions. “This one would tell her tale, but only after supper is served.”

The three travelers returned to their seats once the stew had been served. Ra’zhinda had deftly cut the bread into thick slices with a sharp dagger, while Ma’dran spooned out hearty portions of stew into deep, earthenware bowls. Large, tender cuts of goat, sweet green leeks and hunks of potato swam within thick gravy, which was easily sopped up by the warm, crisp bread. It was simple fare, no different than any other they had shared on the road before. And yet, somehow, each would agree that although of no great significance, this shared meal beneath the pine grove outside the city of Windhelm, would be looked back on as the night their fortunes had finally taken a turn for the better.

If only for a little while.

 

* * *

  **4E 180, late Morning Sun**

As the foundling child grew, so did the caravan. Shortly after her second year, marked by the date Tawana had fished her from the White River, Ma’dran found himself with an apprentice…make that two?

At the insistence of Ri’saad, Ma’dran had taken on the twin brothers Sahir and Rohir. Nearly identical, save a notch on Rohir’s left ear, the khajiit twins could not have been more different in personality. Although both had joined Ma’dran’s caravan under the pretext of learning the merchant trade, only Sahir had shown any aptitude. Rohir could not have cared less for figures and numbers, choosing instead to impose himself upon Ra’zhinda. She took his eagerness in stride, finally having another who appreciated the warrior’s way on the road with them brought her great joy. By night, they sparred, Rohir learning quickly the ways of combat. Once Ma’dran deemed him worthy, she dropped Rohir as an apprentice and hired him instead as a second caravan guard.

Where Sahir lacked his brother’s prowess with a blade, he more than made up for it with his tongue, which was sharper wielded than any sword. He was a cunning young khajiit with a great head for trading that bore even greater results. The combined intellect and shrewd business sense of Ma’dran and Sahir was highly profitable, earning Ri’saad’s esteemed praise, along with several more distinguished contracts.

Tawana was expecting again, her pregnancy brought forth many conflicting emotions amongst the original three members of the caravan. Despite proper arrangements having been made, Ma’dran was still incredibly anxious about the arrival of the ma’khajiit. He spent many long nights watching the sleeping forms of Tawana and ma’Illiten, knowing that should any tradgedy befall, there would be no new foundling babe to bring his sunej-ari out of her depression.

The foundling child, whom after Tawana spent too long without naming, Ra’zhinda had finally dubbed ma’Illiten. It was a simple, albeit silly name that in Ta’agra translating roughly to ‘little girl’. It was just as well, as she had known no other name.

Ma’Illiten was small for her age, but this was unbeknownst to her khajiit family, as they knew very little of the rearing of human babes. Her wispy, blonde hair hung about her head like a cloud, so pale it was almost white in color. Her eyes were slowly changing hue, from light sky blue to a deep indigo. This had alarmed Tawana at first, as ma’khajiit did not undergo such a change, their eyes staying true to their birth color throughout their lives.

The sight of such a young human child amongst the khajiit caravan had initially brought unwanted attention, attracting guards and angry holdsmen demanding explanation for the human child. Eventually it became a common sight along their trade route, Ma’dran’s caravan now being identified as the ‘one with the human babe’. Sadly, even with Ma’dran and Tawana’s adopted human child, they still were denied entry to the city proper of Windhelm.

It had become a common occurance for Ma’dran and the other caravans to be denied entry. One by one, the doors of the great cities of Skyrim shut firmly upon the whiskers of the travelling merchants, citing khajiit thieves and swindlers as the cause for the ban.

Ri’saad had eventually worked out dealings with the Jarls, allowing entry to the small towns and outskirts of the hold capitols. Merchants would make arrangements to deliver and receive orders from the caravans, sending workers and couriers to move stock to-and-fro, thus circumventing the ban on khajiit within their cities. It was not a perfect system, but one that resulted in good trades and great profit for all parties. This was, of course, a time when civil war was brewing, and many were without viable alternatives to the khajiit traders. Though still in its infancy, the caravans could foresee the great opportunity this war would present, specifically for their coffers.

 

* * *

  **4E 180, Second Seed**

“Dead!?” The man exclaimed in disbelief. “What do you mean she’s DEAD? When? HOW?”

The priestess of Arkay looked at the near-belligerent man, once again filled with regret at her poor choice of career. Preparing the dead was one thing, but the living? Ugh. Sometimes, she thought, the living were just a little too lively.

“It’s been what, two years since she passed I think…hmmm. Let me check my notes.” Helgrid said with a sigh, walking back to her desk and pulling out a heavy tome. “Now what did you say her name was again?”

 

* * *

  **4E 186**

Rumors of political upheaval in the northernmost province of Tamriel had spread far and wide across the Empire. The Dark Brotherhood had been rendered impotent in the north, a trusted source confiding that they were without a Listener. Having no solid connection to their esteemed Night Mother, they would pose no threat to his cause. And now, to have the Thieves Guild brought to its knees from within their own order! It was finally time, thought Ra’tarmo-dar, time for the Rajhini Kanjaar to sink their claws deep into Skyrim.

Ra’tarmo-dar had been named Vada’dariit, soon to be master of the Skyrim branch of the Rajhini Kanjaar. A long-time rival of Tamriel’s notorious Thieves Guild, they had emerged from the shifting sands of Elsweyr, following in the mischievous footprints of the Great Trickster Thief Rajhin. They were his shadow and his claws, the footpad soldiers motivated not by greed, but the challenge of a heist well done.

Despite his small and unassuming stature, Ra’tarmo-dar lead his order with an iron paw. As an alfiq-raht, he had spent his life waiting in the shadows, gaining knowledge and power through acts of treachery and deceit. Behind the shrewd, green eyes of the old cat hid a great many secrets, fueled by seemingly endless ambition.

From Elsweyr he had journeyed with his children, both born under Cathay moons. Taza-jo aspired to follow in his father’s footsteps, eagerly training to hone his skills in illusion and guile. La’Vuzmii on the other hand, had been very reluctant to leave their homeland behind. She had been training under the Clan Mothers, hoping to learn the secret alchemical recipes of moon sugar. It was her loyalty to her father, and nothing more, that brought her on the road to Skyrim.

Passing through Cyrodiil, they had hired on the protection of Kujo’do, a mighty cathay-raht who possessed a mastery of sleight-of-hand. After witnessing his talents during a particularly underhanded game of cards while in the Imperial City, Ra’tarmo-dar has been insistent that he join their faction as a full member of the Rahjini Kanjaar.

From Cyrodiil, they had posed as a trade caravan seeking their fortunes in the northern province. During the journey from Falkreach Hold to Haafingar, two more members were added to order; an exiled Clan Mother named Zrasha and her crafty argonian mate Walks-in-Sands. They had been mountebanks, profiting off gullible man and mer with fantastical potions and outrageous tonics, claiming mythical effects derived from khajiit secrets of old. They were a welcome addition to the Rahjini Kanjaar, and Zrasha’s knowledge of the old ways allowed La’Vuzmii to begin her training anew.

It was in the great city of Solitude they made the guild hall, built right under the nose of the High King himself. The sewers were a city in and of themselves, an underworld of which Ra’tarmo-dar quickly became lord and master. The khajiit may not have been welcomed in the cities of Skyrim, but beneath the cobble streets and stone buildings they made their own; Jhadat’vasa, the City Below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more ta'agra translations for you kind peeps!  
> ahziss-tot - my husband  
> ma’tasmiit - infant, child (Nord)  
> illiten - girl  
> ma’ - little, young  
> jetwijijri - cut/shaved skin (an insult to non-khajiit)  
> rejizeva’a - marriage, wedding
> 
> And some cool Nord lingo as well:  
> frostdød - hypothermia (literally, frost death)  
> frostskadr - frostbite
> 
> Once again, please let me know about any spelling or grammar errors!  
> I'm just a lil' donut with delusions of grandeur D:


	3. The Cat's Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The the grizzled old fisherman told Einarr and his sisters tales of the legendary Greybeards, masters of the Thu’um who lived atop the soaring mountains. He spoke of High Hrothgar and the Throat of the World, of fabled heroes and legends of old. It helped pass the time as they journeyed down the winding river, across the Rift to their destination.

**CHAPTER THREE: THE CAT’S EYE**

* * *

  **4E 190, Rain’s Hand**

“Einarr! EINARR!” The man’s voiced bellowed from within the small, dilapidated hut. Right on cue, a lanky, red haired lad of about twelve dropped his hoe and scampered across the small potato field. He arrived mere moments later, dropping his hands to his knees as he panted, breathing heavily.

“Da… _huff_ …what… _huff_ …” The boy was cut short by a large, callused hand about his scruff that pulled him through the doorway into the wooden structure. His eyes blinked furiously as they tried to adjust to the dim lighting.

“Skirja’s gone inta’ labor, I need your help boy.”

The man was tall, so tall that his mighty red head dusted the wooden rafters above. He was by no means attractive, with a broad, flat face and thick, squirrely brows. His bushy mane and beard gave him an almost leonine appearance, streaked with less silver than usual for one of his age. His most notable feature however, was what the man lacked. His right arm had been amputated on the battlefield, a handbreadth below the elbow. It had been his last battle in the Great War, before the Imperial Legion sent back from the frontlines, too crippled to serve his countrymen any further.

Einarr acknowledged his father with a gruff aye, before getting down to work. The lad clearly took after his father, sharing both coloring and unruly hair. Out of all of Hvalr’s seven children, Einarr was the only one who bore such a resemblance to his sire. The rest of his brood sported the darker hair and olive-toned skin of his Poppy, a remnant of the diluted Imperial blood that ran through her veins.

His three eldest sons, Gunvald, Fridjof and Dagfinn had left home years before, each seeking their fortunes across the lands of Skyrim. Of his daughters, only Fjaera had moved away, settling down closer to Falkreach with her new husband who worked the local mill. Embla and Reidun were still too young to marry, and Hvalr was in no hurry for them to do so.

As a concession for his losses, Hvalr had been given a sum of money for his sacrifice to the Empire’s cause. While little more than a pittance, he and his wife Poppy had invested wisely, purchasing a small plot of land just south of Lake Ilnalta. Their hard work had paid off, resulting in Hvalrsted; a bustling farmstead with several plots of crops and a small herd of cattle. Now entering their later years, they had hoped fervently that one of their sons or daughters would show an interest in taking over the family farm. Sadly, none had shown any inclination or desire to do so.

Later that night, after Einarr and his father had thoroughly cleaned themselves of any remainders of the birthing, they joined the rest of their family for the evening meal. Dinner was never a silent affair at Hvalrsted, even more so due to Poppy and the girls had spending the better part of the day in Falkreach proper, trading goods and news with the local merchants.

After the fourth time his sisters had broken out into giggles over the Jarl Dengeir’s handsome nephew, (a sour-faced lad Einarr knew to be a complete tosser) Einarr had pulled back his spoon and launched a chunk of potato at his sisters.

As far as root vegetable launches go, it was quite a fine shot. The soggy, waterlogged lump, still dripping with broth from his soup, sailed gracefully through the air before landing directly on top of Reidun’s dark brown curls with a wet splat.

At the sound of Reidun’s shocked wail, Hvalr and Poppy’s immediately turned towards Einarr. Turning as red as his hair, Einarr silently slid his spoon back onto the table and gulped nervously, keeping his eyes low in a desperate bid to become invisible. All was quiet.

Suddenly, the sound Hvalr’s deep, hearty laugh cut through the silence. Soon the air was rife with laughter, even Einarr calming enough to join in with the rest of his family. Once the laughter had died, Poppy gently removed the offending remnants from Reidun’s hair with a damp cloth. Dinner concluded, the table was cleared and dishes washed. As the evening came to an end, Poppy sending her children to wash up before bed. Before Einarr could even begin climbing the ladder to the loft above to his sleeping quarters, he was stopped by his father’s gentle hand upon his shoulder.

“Come with me boy,” His voice was low. “Gotta check on ol’Skirja an’er babe ‘fore we sleep.”

Einarr searched his father’s face, knowing very well that Skirja and her calf weren’t all he had planned for them. Sure, his outburst had been met with laughter, but Fiskr knew good and well that he was in for a stern talking to before he would be allowed back in the house to sleep. He followed his father back out to the hut, hoping that the lecture would at least be brief.

 

* * *

  **4E 190, late Mid-Year**

Sala and Z’rimith chased after their older sister, laughing as the soft, lush summer grasses tickled across their knees. Further along the clearing their target could be seen trying desperately to climb up the branches of a grizzled old tree. The two ma’khajiit were relentless, reaching up with their pudgy little paws to grasp at her pantleg.

“Illi! Wait for us!” Cried the older of the two, her yellow eyes gleaming with mischief as she picked up her younger brother and tried to help him up the tree. “C’mon Zimi, Illi’s getting away!” Z’rimith, or Zimi as his sister referred to him, gurgled happily in response, his fuzzy little arms reached out to grab hold of a low branch. From above, there came an irritated huff, before its owner began to descend from the upper branches, all the while grumbling about poorly behaved kittens and their endless capacity for irritation.

“Enough! Sala should know better, Zimi is small, he could get hurt.”

Right on cue, the dry branch in his hand snapped, sending both Z’rimith and Sala tumbled to the ground in a flourish of leaves and twigs. Standing over her foolish young siblings, Illi, or ma’Illiten as their mother called her, scowled down at the giggling faces of the children.

Unlike her furry siblings, ma’Illiten bore no pelt, save a twisted knot of pale blonde locks held back from her face by a strip of leather. Her skin was tanned from endless hours under the sun, as most of her life was spent beneath the open sky wandering the roads with her family’s caravan. Instead of yellow like Sala, or soft green like Z’rimith, her eyes were a deep, dark blue. It had been over ten years since she had been found by Tawana, helplessly adrift in an icy river. In that time, she had grown to be almost as tall as her mother. Like many youths her age, her limbs were long and gangly, growing at leaps and bounds that had astonished her adoptive family.

With a ma’khajiit hanging off each arm, she allowed herself to be marched back towards the tents. Hopefully soon her father Ma’dran would return from his business, and the children would have a different target to annoy. It wasn’t that ma’Illiten didn’t love her brother and sister, for that was far from true, but lately she had been longing for time away from the rambunctious pair. She had many things on the forefront of her mind as of late, an overwhelming surge of thoughts and feelings that had come seemingly out of nowhere.

If this is what it meant to become a grown-up, ma’Illiten wanted nothing to do with it.

Watching her kittens as they dragged their older sister back to camp, Tawana let out a soft chuckle and nodded towards the ragtag trio to her companion. Ra’zhinda’s eyes lit up at the sight, for much like their mother, she held great love for the children. Beckoning them come close, Ra’zhinda held aloft a small burlap bag bound with a thin red ribbon.

“A gift, from the Blue Palace kitchens my bishu-ari.” She proffered the sack to children, holding it open for them to look inside.

Within the bag, delicately lined with a thin, waxy parchment, sat several delicate, golden cakes. A thick, white glaze covered the tops, some crested with dried berries, while others sliced nuts and dates. The sweet, sugary fragrance they emitted had both children’s noses quivering and mouths watering with anticipation.

“SWEETROLLS!” They rang out in unison, overjoyed at the sight of the much beloved treats. Snatching one apiece, they hurried off to enjoy their tasty treasures. They holed up beneath a small tent they had constructed earlier, made from an old travelling cloak and several brooms pilfered from their father’s cart of goods.

“Ma’Illiten, you will have one as well, yes?” Ra’zhinda gave the bag a small shake, trying to entice the girl into taking a sweetroll for herself.

Scanning the remaining cakes, she chose one topped with dried snowberries, a taste she had acquired during their travels in Skyrim’s snowier holds. She bit into the spongey cake, only to recoil in horror as her mouth filled with blood. The sweetroll dropped to the ground as both her hands immediately were brought to her bloody mouth.

Tawana was instantly alarmed, rushing to her daughter’s side. She coaxed the girl into opening her mouth, the cause of her distress immediately apparent. Tutting to herself, she bent and grabbed a flask of watery wine she had been drinking earlier, and bade the girl take a drink.

“Swish and spit, ma’illiten, no harm done.” She soothed, hand stroking her daughter’s back as the girl began to calm. Ra’zhinda put the bag aside and reached down to pluck the offending sweetroll from the dirt below. There, nestled into the side of the cake was a single, bloody tooth.

 

* * *

  **4E 192, Sun’s Height**

The journey to Riften had been an eye-opening experience for Einarr, having never before traveled beyond the borders of Falkreach Hold. Of course, anything, in his opinion, was preferable to staying home and tending the farm. It had taken almost two weeks to reach Ivarstead, whereupon his father had chartered a fisherman to sail them down the Treva River to Lake Honrich, the great lake that bordered Riften.

He had watched with an inexplicable sense of longing as they had sailed away from the great mountains that overshadowed Ivarstead. The grizzled old fisherman told Einarr and his sisters tales of the legendary Greybeards, masters of the Thu’um who lived atop the soaring mountains. He spoke of High Hrothgar and the Throat of the World, of fabled heroes and legends of old. It helped pass the time as they journeyed down the winding river, across the Rift to their destination. Einarr was sad to discover that sailing was no better than farming, both being equally boring.

The Great Temple of Mara was the prized jewel of the Rift, a diamond in the rough-and-tumble Riften, city of thieves. Both Embla and Reidun were married to their respective partners in a joint ceremony, along with several other couples who had made the journey from all across Skyrim. Hvalr had been a total wreck during the entire service, blubbering into the delicate, lacey handkerchief of the old Breton woman beside him. She had patted his leg reassuringly, all the while sniffling into a handkerchief of her own and commenting on the beauty of the lovely brides.

Hvalr had cried at the weddings of all his beloved children, much to the chagrin of those around him. Einarr had been mortified throughout the service, having never before witnessed such an open emotional display from his normally stoic father. 

They had stayed merely one night in Riften before setting out onto the road again, Poppy insistent that they return to the farm before Last Seed. Bypassing Ivarstead, they travelled the south roads through Helgen on their return. Hvalr had been pleased to find he knew several of the Imperial soliders stationed there, enthusiastically catching up with his old brothers-in-arms over bottles of juniper mead. Poppy and Einarr had to practically drag him away, insisting that they hasten their way home. Einarr was surprised at how sad he was to see their journey come to an end.

Coming home was an uneventful affair, the family easily slipping back into long established routine despite being fewer two people. Embla and her husband would be moving to Solitude with his family, while Reidun and her wife, a fiery Redguard ex-mercenary, had plans to settle in the mining town of Darkwater Crossing. Einarr had shouldered their chores with great complaint, loathing the extra jobs he had been assigned around the farm.

And so, life continued, Einarr taking on more and more responsibility as his parents aging bodies allowed them less and less mobility. The seventh and only remaining child held an immense grudge against his siblings. He fully believed that they had intentionally left him solely responsible for the care of their parents and Hvalrsted. None of Hvalr and Poppy’s children had ever desired to take on the labors of their parents. And now, as the last child remaining at the Hvalrsted, Einarr was left to begrudgingly take up the mantle.

 

* * *

  **4E 192, Last Seed**

Bandits. The roads as of late were teeming with them and Ma’dran had hired on an additional guard to protect his caravan. He feared more for the safety of his family than the goods they bore, fatherhood had made him less concerned about profit when it came to the wellbeing of his children. At the suggestion of Ahkari, he had taken on her nephew Ma’jhad.

Ma’jhad was a very large khajiit, a cathay-raht even taller than Ra’zhinda and twice as muscular. He wielded a great claymore that Ma’dran knew to be immensely heavy, for he had tried to lift it one night in jest and could scarcely raise it past his knees. This had caused the giant cat to laugh loudly before taking the blade from him, and deftly sheathing it upon his back in a fluid movement. Yes, with his vast size and immense strength, Ma’jhad was a deadly foe to those on the wrong side of his sword.

With his new guard Ma’jhad, the loyal swordswoman Ra’zhinda and the twins Sahir and Rohir, Ma’dran felt his caravan and his family well protected. Perhaps it was this falsely perceived safety that had allowed the events of that night to occur.

They had struck at night, a motley crew of man and mer clothed in the sullied furs and leathers favored by such vagabonds. The twins Sahir and Rohir had been on watch, talking quietly around the fading glow of the evening’s fire. Sahir was struck suddenly, knocked backwards with an arrow protruding through his left eye. He had been killed instantly.

Rohir let out a mighty roar, alerting the sleeping members of the caravan, and drew his swords. The dim light of the dying fire gleamed wickedly off the blades as he charged the nearest bandit. Roused by Rohir’s shout, and the clang of steel-on-steel, Ra’zhinda and Ma’jhad burst out of their tents, weapons drawn and hackles raised as they entered the melee. Tawana shook her husband awake, her face fraught with fear. Ma’dran abruptly got to his feet, reaching beside their shared bedroll to draw his dagger. His pressed it into her hands wordlessly before darting out of the tent. Grabbing the wood axe outside the tent, he joined the fray.

Ma’Illiten’s eyes had shot awake at the instance of Rohir’s roar. She lay upon a pallet of straw and furs, Sala and Z’rimith curled up asleep beside her within the tangle of furs and blankets. She watched Tawana wake Ma’dran, saw the passing of the dagger and felt her stomach drop. Something was very, very wrong. Hearing the sounds of fighting from outside the tent, she quickly untangled herself from the bed and crawled over to Tawana’s quaking silhouette.

“Fado, what is it?” She whispered, drawing up next to her mother. “Where has ahnurr—” She was cut short by the sound of ripping as an enormous battleaxe tore through the side of the tent.

“Take the ma’khajiit and go!” Hissed Tawana as she passed her Ma’dran’s dagger. “Run as far from here as you can ma’Illiten.”

They quickly roused the sleeping children, the poor dears extremely confused as to why the nights rest had been abruptly ended. Tawana shushed them and hastily wrapped cloaks about their small shoulders. Taking both in hand, ma’Illiten pulled her siblings towards the back wall of the tent where Tawana held up the heavy hide just enough for them to squeeze beneath. Amidst the confusion of battle, three small, unseen figures raced from behind the tent and into the dense foliage beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta'agra transalations:  
> sala - radiant  
> zrimith - shine, glow  
> bishu ari - little loves (my darlings)  
> fado - mother  
> ahnurr - father  
> Nord Translations:  
> skirja - cow (yes, I named the cow "Cow")
> 
> For those interested, Hvalrsted would be located near Hunter's Rest and Half-Moon Mill, south of Lake Ilinalta on your map :)  
> All mistakes are my own, feel free to point out any spelling/grammar errors and I will gladly correct them.


	4. Into the Merciful Paws of S'rendarr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her hand tightened against Z’rimith’s, who cowered behind her with tears streaming down his tiny, furry cheeks. Nothing could have possibly prepared these two young children for the horrific monster that now charged at them. Strings of ropey, viscous saliva spilled from its jaws as it roared again, all three of its menacing eyes bearing down upon them. Now immediately upon them, it raised both of its enormous fists skyward.

**CHAPTER FOUR: INTO THE MERCIFUL PAWS OF S’RENDARR**

* * *

  **4E 192, Last Seed**

Ma’dran awoke to the scent of burnt flesh and faint murmurs. Upon opening his eyes, they were immediately assaulted by the burning, prickling sensation of smoke. Sitting up, he brought a shaky hand to his face, feeling the crusted blood that had dried across his muzzle. He vaguely recalled a knife flashing towards his face, cutting into his snout. At the memory, his face stung sharply, the flesh pulling as he grimaced and reopening his wounds. Blood began to trickle once more down his face as he looked to his surroundings.

The camp was a disaster. The bloodied remnants of the previous night’s events lay scattered about, like Hearthfire leaves upon harvest grass. Amongst the wreckage he was greatly sorrowed to see the body of young Sahir, arrow shaft still protruding from his open eye socket. Rohir sat hunched over, holding the limp hand of his brother, fingers rubbing softly over Sahir’s knuckles.  His great shoulders were heaving as he mourned the loss of his fallen twin. Rohir’s swords lay at his side, both stained by dark, dried blood.

No matter where he looked, Ma’dran could only see destruction. The caravan mules, once hardy beasts built for travelling the treacherous roads of Skyrim now lay bloodied and broken upon the earth. They had made unwilling targets for the arrows that had flown midst the battle. The wagon they had pulled in life now joined them in the dirt, overturned in the fray and contents strewn about, the wooden frame still smoldering from being set alight by a stray firebolt.

His livelihood lay in ruins before him, torn asunder by the aggressive actions of brigands and thieves. His body ached from the battle, from fighting to protect his family and friends. By Jode and Jone, what had brought this upon them? His eyes cold scarcely believe the scene that stretched before them, the twisted, shattered pieces of the life he had struggled so hard and so long to build for his family…and where were his family? WHERE were his family? The thought jolted him from his reverie, bringing him immediately to the present.

Ma’dran’s ears turned sharply as the sound of murmuring grew more distinct. On the far side of the clearing, nestled in the charred remains of what had once been the great elk-hide tent, sat the large figure of Ra’zhinda, softly rocking a small form in her arms. He rose on unsteady legs and limped towards them, wiping back the blood from his face to better see what lay before him.

Ra’zhinda cradled Tawana in her arms, tightly clasping her smaller body to her chest as she rocked, singing softly under her breath. Ma’dran finally recognized the tune as he fell to his aching knees beside them. It was a lullaby, one he had often heard his wife use to soothe their children to sleep. He had even sung it himself on nights when the restless ma’khajiit had found sleep elusive. He reached out with shaking arms, one going to stroke across Tawana’s golden brow as the other wrapped about her limp, delicate hand.

Tawana was alive, but only just. Her eyes seemed unfocused, staring off distantly. Her robes were soaked in blood that pooled beneath her body, staining the dirt below a deep crimson. Ma’dran could only watch solemnly as his sunej-ari, the mate of his heart and mother of his children, lay dying before him, her lifeblood spilling onto the cold, unrelenting ground.

“ _J-J-Jobal._ ” Tawana called out weakly. “ _M-Ma’J-J-Jobal._ ”

The hand Ma’dran held lifted feebly, reaching out to unseen visions. She was smiling now, blood oozing out from behind her teeth. He choked back a sob, his fingers gently stroking her cheek.

“ _Fea ma’k-khajiit, fea. F-f-fado k-kud_ …”

Ra’zhinda kept singing to her friend, even as her rocking gave way to a full-bodied shaking as the spark of life finally faded from Tawana’s eyes.

 

> _Inqa, inqa_  
>  _bishu ari_  
>  _inqa, inqa_  
>  _ma’khajiit_
> 
> _Khi zaigali_  
>  _bishu ari_  
>  _khi zaigali_  
>  _ma’khajiit_
> 
> _Ritha linu_  
>  _bishu ari_  
>  _wano jer atha’a_  
>  _ma’khajiit_

* * *

Sala was scared. Terrified. Her small body shaking with fear and eyes widened in fright at the hulking creature that towered before her. A giant, monstrous hand held aloft, seeming to take up the entire sky before coming down, crashing into the side of her sister with a bone-rattling roar. Ma’Illiten’s scream pierced through the air—only to be cut short as the wind was knocked from her lungs by the sheer force of impact that sent her flying over the cliffside. The beast roared again, drumming clawed, meaty fists against its chest before it began loping towards Sala.

They had been on the run throughout the night, ma’Illiten insistent on putting as much distance between them and the chaos that had erupted at the campsite as possible. Both of the young children were exhausted, Z’rimith having to be carried by his oldest sister for most of the journey, his pudgy toddler legs not equipped for such activities. They had travelled up the rocky cliff, with the hopes that the rough terrain would dissuade followers. It was only now, dawn’s first light shining upon the precipice of the cliffside, that they had run into danger.

Her hand tightened against Z’rimith’s, who cowered behind her with tears streaming down his tiny, furry cheeks. Nothing could have possibly prepared these two young children for the horrific monster that now charged at them. Strings of ropey, viscous saliva spilled from its jaws as it roared again, all three of its menacing eyes bearing down upon them. Now immediately upon them, it raised both of its enormous fists skyward.

Suddenly, a tall, dark figure barreled into the beast, knocking it back and away from the shrinking ma’khajiit. It roared once more, this time it’s ire directed at the assaulting party. Bellowing a mighty battle cry, Ma’jhad swung at the monster with his claymore. The cathay-raht was unrelenting, forcing the creature closer and closer to the cliff’s edge with every swipe of his blade. It had torn through the beast’s soft underbelly, revealing a rope of intestines that now hung out from the wound.

The troll clutched one of its large claws to the gash, gore pouring between thick, hairy fingers, trying to prevent the further pouring of its organs from its torso. Ma’jhad struck one final time, claymore glinting in the sun’s light as it bit into the troll’s shoulder, before wrenching it back and delivering a powerful kick that sent the hulking mass soaring over the cliff’s edge. As it fell, it released one final roar before crashing into the rocky ground below.

Panting heavily, Ma’jhad turned to look at the children, giant blade hefted over his shoulder, blood slowly dripping down the edge. Sala and Z’rimith, overwhelmingly relieved at the sight of their familiar savior, ran forwards. Ma’jhad sheathed his sword and dropped to his knees just in time to grab both of the ma’khajiit into a fierce embrace.

Initial relief having worn off, Ma’jhad became quickly aware of the absence of the eldest child.

“Where is ma’Illiten?” He asked Sala, still holding fast to both children. “Where is Sala’s sister?”

Panic once again took hold of Sala, and she anxiously began looking this way and that, trying to see where he sister had fallen after being struck by the troll. Ma’jhad let go of both children and rose to his feet. He had not seen ma’Illiten struck by the troll, having arrived mere moments after the blow was delivered. They searched the surroundings anxiously, for any sign of the missing girl. It was a couple hours into their search, that Ma’jhad made the decision to take the children back to camp. He assured a distraught Sala that he would return to continue looking for her missing sister, once he had brought them back safely to their parents.

* * *

 “Vaba dat sallidad?” <Is it dead?>

“Ahziss krozij deje zaigu.” <I think just unconscious.>

“Opa…kaaka vaba dat roliter?” <So…what is it sister?>

“ok’ali vaba tasmiit…” <Seems to be human…>

“Ash zivsho iso dat?” <Does it have any gold?>

“Roj zaigoh!” <She wakes!>

“Fea liter! Alsaka ahziss saj! Fea!” <Quiet brother! I’ll handle this! Shush!>

“…Aso azhirr var dar?” <…Should we kill it?>

“NO!”

“Ah, so the ma’tasmiit speaks, what luck!”

“Yes, how…interesting.”

 

* * *

  **4E 193, Hearthfire**

Life at Hvalrsted was, without a doubt, the single most boring thing Einarr could think of. With his sisters and brothers now gone, leaving him no choice but to stay and tend to his aging parents and their small farm, he was growing increasingly resentful. Einarr sighed to himself, the teenager kicking a stone with the thick leather toe of his rough boots as he walked towards the small, dilapidated barn that housed the family’s meager livestock. Once inside, he set up his stool and pail, and began to milk Skirjkind, all the while ranting to her about his current state of affairs.

“I just don’t understand why the Gods would do this to me,” He began. “Gunvald was the firstborn, this should all be his. But no! He just _had_ to run off to join the Legion. And the rest of them! Fridjolf and Dagfinn off Gods know where! Fjaera and Embla couldn’t be bothered to stay either! And Reidun! Where did she even meet that terrifying woman anyways!?” Einarr squeezed just a little too hard on Skirjkind’s teat in emphasis, nearly being unseated by a wayward kick.

“Sorry old girl…” He hastily patted her rump before continuing. “I’m the seventh of seven. I should be out finding my own place in the world, not stuck here milking cows and tending to the elderly. I should have been denied inheritance, forced to seek my own fortune! Adventuring through crypts and caverns, fighting draugr and falmer and all other sorts of ‘ers! But no, what do I get? I’ll tell you what I get, stuck here ‘til I die of bloody fucking boredom, that’s what!”

Skirjkind mooed apathetically before dropping her head to her feed once more.

“It’s just…what if…if this is all there is? All I get to be? Just Einarr the farmer, weeding potato plants and milking cows for all eternity? Why in Talos’ name am I even bothering? They’ve all gone and left me here to rot Skirjkind. Got out while they could, these bloody bastards…” He trailed off, his anger subsiding to an all-consuming feeling of hopelessness. “Fuck. What am I even trying for anymore? We’ve got war and famine, elves running amuck in the capital and even the old Gods are being denied. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!”

Startled by his exclamation, Skirjkind shifted forwards, knocking over the milk pail. Einarr watched as the fluid seeped into the floor, straw absorbing most of the mess. Dropping his head into his hands, he sighed heavily. Tears of frustration burned in the back of his eyes. Gods be damned, he thought, being seventh of seven surely must be some sort of curse.

Salvaging what little remaining milk he could, Einarr headed back to the farmstead for a brief meal before continuing his daily chores. The seemingly never-ending list of things to do did little to occupy his thoughts, which grew less and less angry as the day passed. He felt trapped, stuck in a wheel rut on the path of life. He should be happy, proud that he had something to his name, some way to support himself and his family, but his heart was full of deep, unsettling unhappiness. It felt like a darkness has settled on his heart and he was terrified to see what it would bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rithana di Tawana  
> Inqa, inqa  
> bishu ari  
> inqa, inqa  
> ma’khajiit
> 
> Khi zaigali  
> bishu ari  
> khi zaigali  
> ma’khajiit
> 
> Ritha linu  
> bishu ari  
> wano jer atha’a  
> ma’khajiit
> 
> I struggled to so much with this chapter, it was like pulling teeth trying to write it. I apologize for the shorter length, but it felt like a good break in the story.
> 
> Fun Fact: Rithana di Tawana (Tawana's Lullaby) is a rough translation of the song my grandmother sang to me as a child.


	5. Winds of Kenarthi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a long, harsh winter for the southern holds. Lake Ilinalta had frozen solid, a thick sheet of impenetrable ice and snow marred only by a few small shacks erected by local fishermen. Life at Hvalrsted had been rough, the farm suffering from a recent string of ice storms that had torn through the area.

**CHAPTER FIVE: WINDS OF KHENARTHI**

* * *

  **4E 194, First Seed**

It had been a long, harsh winter for the southern holds. Lake Ilinalta had frozen solid, a thick sheet of impenetrable ice and snow marred only by a few small shacks erected by local fishermen. Life at Hvalrsted had been rough, the farm suffering from a recent string of ice storms that had torn through the area. The trees surrounding the property were heavily laden with a coating of ice, some bent impossibly low from the sheer weight. More still had been laid low by the ensuing winds, snapping thick boughs and trunks like kindling.

It was during this time that Poppy had fallen grievously ill, overcome by a severe cause of pneumonia. Einarr could only watch solemnly as his mother slowly succumbed to her illness, seeking help from the city had been made all but impossible, the roads completely vanishing under the all-consuming snows. By the time the word had been sent to the healers in Falkreach, it had been two weeks too late.

When the ground had finally softened enough for a proper burial, the priest of Arkay had made the journey to Hvalrsted to assist in the interment of the late Poppy. Einarr had been assigned the task of digging the grave, his mother had been insistent on being buried on the family lands in lieu of the Falkreach graveyard. He bent wearily over his shovel, it had taken several hours to break through the dirt, still hardened by the winter freeze. His father Hvalr and the priest were inside the farmstead, preparing Poppy’s frozen body for her final resting place.

The funeral was a somber affair, Einarr was particularly disappointed in the turnout of his siblings. Of the seven children of Hvalr and Poppy, only three were in attendance. Fjaera and Reidun were inconsolable, both overcome with grief at the loss of their beloved mother. Reidun clung to her wife, sobbing loudly into her shoulder. The ex-mercenary, a roguish individual named Davina Dark-Blade, was uncharacteristically quiet, her face betraying no emotion as the service proceeded.

“As we commend your soul to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you…” Began the priest, reciting the customary rite of the fallen. Blessings of the Nine Divines, thought Fiskr bitterly. Despite the political ban on the worship of Talos, his mother had been a devote follower of the man-turned-god.

“For you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved child, and beloved of Arkay. May you find peace in your afterlife, and may your body find rest while it remains in Tamriel. Let no profane desecration fall upon thy remains, and may Arkay protect your body and welcome your soul in his Halls, until Tamriel is no more.”

 

* * *

  **4E 194, early Hearthfire**

After the death Poppy, it seemed life no longer held a purpose for Hvalr. If not for the tireless efforts of Einarr, the farm would have been lost to neglect. At his desperate request, Reidun and her wife Davina had stayed on through the planting and harvesting, but they left Hvalrsted once more at the end of Last Seed. After the hard winter, it had taken a lot of work to bring the farmstead back to order. Broken branches and dead trees had been cut down, roofing patched and the fields cleaned of cluttered debris.

Hvalr spent all of his time inside the house, seated before the empty hearth with a distant stare. Forced from his own struggles with personal demons, Einarr had focused all of his free time on taking care of his father. Gone was the boisterous, laughing giant of a man, and in his place only the hollowed shell remained. Muscles from years of hard labor had faded away, leaving Hvalr the look of a gaunt old man twice his age. His eyes no longer sparkled, dulled by the loss of his love.

It had been a long day working the fields in preparation for the winter, Einarr finally returning to the house long after dark. It was fortunate that Masser shone bright that night, for its light through the windows was the only thing that lit the inside of the house. As he crossed the threshold, Einarr felt a sick, twisted sensation in his stomach. His father was not seated by the hearth, but in his place sat a folded piece of parchment. Something was wrong. Hvalr had vanished without a trace, leaving behind a single note addressed to his youngest son

Gods and Daedra, thought Einarr, what have I done to deserve such miserable luck?

 

> - _Einarr_
> 
> _Yer ma’s gone. I must follow._
> 
> _Hvalrsted is yers. Hvalrif is yers._
> 
> _Tell tha gels I luv em._
> 
> _-Da_

There was no second funeral that year, only Einarr and a makeshift grave built beside his mother’s. Einarr was angry, so very angry. His heart ached. His lungs felt like they were going to burst. All he wanted to do hurt, so hurt he did, bloodying his knuckles upon the bark of a nearby pine. It wasn’t fair. Nothing had ever been fair. Father couldn’t leave him that easily.

Einarr had sent word to Fjaera of Hvalr’s fatal flight. She had returned as quickly as she could, dragging along with her a pair of squabbling children and her stone-faced husband. It hadn’t taken much to convince her of his plan, and he watching with grim satisfaction as she herded her small family back to Falkreach with the cows in tow. Einarr was going away, and they would need tending in the coming winter.

 

* * *

  **4E 194, Frostfall**

As he wandered the forests of Falkreach, Einarr realized how foolish his search was. He had no skill as a tracker or hunter, he was a farmer. Even with the imposing Hvalrif, his father’s mighty warhammer, he was no warrior. Hell, he could barely wield the heavy thing! At seventeen, he had only just started to fill out, muscles from years of farm work finally beginning to show on his tall, lanky body. His father had fought with the hammer in his prime, during the Great War as a soldier in the Imperial Legion. Einarr was too young, with too little experience to ever use the hammer properly in battle.

A day’s journey north-west of Hvalrsted Einarr finally found some evidence of his father. A patch of muddy earth had retained several large, booted footprints. Sizing them up against his own foot, he knew them to be his father’s size. They looked fresh, at least as fresh as Einarr could tell with his untrained eyes. Hvalr must be close. An hour further along into his searching, Einarr saw in the distance, beyond the loam and trees, the mouth of a huge cave. As he approached, the shape of a man could be seen resting by the opening. Einarr broke into a run, praying to the Nine that he had found his father at last.

As luck would have it, the man by the cave was not the errant Hvalr. Instead, Einarr was shocked to find Valdr, a hunter he knew from previous trips to Falkreach. The man looked worse than death, bleeding profusely from several large gashes across his torso. Einarr was quick to strip off his cloak, pressing the heavy fabric tightly against the wounds with one arm while he searched through his pack with the other. He knew he had a healing potion in there somewhere, Fjaera had been insistent he take some along.

Finally, he felt the cool glass bottle near the bottom of his pack, nestled between a pair of thick fur gloves. Using his mouth to tear out the stopper, he quickly poured half of the red liquid down Valdr’s throat, saving the rest to be applied topically to the wounds. Once satisfied that the man had stabilized, he removed the cloak and used the cleanest corner to apply the potion. After wrapping the infirm hunter tightly with the cloak, Einarr set about the task of lighting a fire. With any luck, when Valdr came to he would have news about Hvalr.

* * *

 “I’m feeling much better.” Valdr’s low voice startled Einarr, causing him to drop the pile of logs he had fetched for the fire onto his foot. “I must thank you my friend, I wouldn’t have lasted much longer without you finding me.”

“Glad to help,” Einarr replied gruffly as he sat beside Valdr, rubbing his toes. “What in Kyne’s name got you into this sorry state?”

“I was hunting with some friends of mine,” Valdr began. “We tracked a bear to this den. Good coin for those pelts you know. Had this big ol’ sow cornered when they showed up. Three of them, out of nowhere.”

“Who?” Asked Einarr, immediately tightening his hand around the nearest log, as if to protect himself from the beasts of Valdry’s tale.

“Spriggans.”

Einarr knew of spriggans, Poppy had often told them tales of the forest guardians, nature spirits that took the form of beautiful woman made of twisted wood and bark. It was unusual for a spriggan to attack though, unless provoked by trespassers in their mystical glades. Einarr glanced nervously into the mouth of the cave, now knowing what secrets lay hidden within.

“So, what happened? Where are your friends?”

Valdr’s expression shifted to one Einarr had grown far too familiar with.

“Niels went down before we even knew to run. Ari died just inside.” He gestured towards the cave. “I never thought the things were real! I mean, I’d heard the stories…but…but…” He trailed off listlessly.

“I’m sorry for your loss, your friends dine in Sovngarde tonight.” He patted Valdr’s arm sympathetically. “There is one thing I must ask you though, have you seen my father? He looks just like me—.”

“Hvalr One-Arm?” Valdr looked at Einarr, finally recognizing the identity of his savior. “Old man’s the one who saved me, threw me right out the opening of the cave.”

“Of course he did.”

“You aren’t going to go after him in there, are you lad?” Concern was evident in the hunter’s voice. “Can you even lift that hammer?”

Einarr scowled at him as he stood, drawing Hvalrif from his back and resting it over his shoulder. He handed Valdr his pack with his free hand before turning to face the darkened entrance to the cave.

“Wait, it’s dangerous to go alone son, take this.” Valdr held out a sheathed dagger to Einarr. “Ari gave it to me when we first started hunting together. Always said it brought her luck.”

Taking the dagger, Einarr shoved the sheath through his belt before walking into the gaping maw of Moss Mother Cavern.

 

* * *

  **4E 195, Rain’s Hand**

“She improves every day Azhurr.” The sleek, grey khajiit sat on the thick arm of her father’s throne, tail curling around one of the ornately carved legs. “She grows strong, walking tall on both legs now.”

“La’Vuzmii, this one has already said no.”

“But Azhurr—!” She protested, tail now swishing irritably.

“A tasmiit has no place in the Rajhini Kanjaar.” The old alfiq-raht said. “We offer a home for the wretch, yes, but not a family. She is no footpad of Rajhin.”

“Of course, Azhurr, La’Vuzmii will not go against the wishes of Vada’darmiit.” She rose to her feet, straightening her leather jerkin as she turned to face him once more. “But La’Vuzmii will still make use of the girl for work outside the Guild.” Stalking away from the room, La’Vuzmii sets out to find Walks-in-Sands and the human girl she had left in their charge.

The pitiful, crippled wretched girl La’Vuzmii and Taza-jo had come across while returning from a heist, was no longer the child she had once been. While Ra’tarmo-dar had tolerated her being brought to the City Below, had felt sorry for the injured young human and her twisted leg, it had been three years now, and his patience was wearing thin. She was a distraction to his family, treated more as a pet than the young woman she had become. Perhaps if La’Vuzmii put her to work outside of the Rajhini Kanjaar, in one of their other business ventures, it might be beneficial. Yes, they would be needing a new mule to train soon. The girl had already proven to have a taste for skooma, it would make her easier to control.

Smiling to himself, Ra’tarmo-dar leapt down from his throne onto his feet. He had to find Zrasha and let the ex-Clan Mother know that she would soon be doing more dealings on the topside of Solitude.

“Sandy, look!” The young woman, Tasmiit as she was called, was standing upright, flexing her ankles to raise and lower herself from her tippy toes. It hurt, for her right leg had never fully recovered from her fall, but after three years she finally had regained most of her mobility.

“Excellent girl, excellent!” Walks-in-Sands smiled as they looked back down at the alchemy table. Tasmiit had been their pet project, and Walks-in-Sands had learned greatly advanced their knowledge in healing as a result. “Keep up your stretching, and you’ll be nimble as Rajhin himself.”

La’Vuzmii took in the scene as she entered the room. Zrasha and her mate Walks-in-Sands had their own private quarters in the Below City, not far from where her father held counsel. She grinned widely at the sight of Tasmiit, proudly observing as the crippled girl practiced her exercises. Nimble as Rajhin indeed, she thought, too bad she could only perform this well while under the haze of skooma.

It had started as a measure against the pain, the girl had been severely injured before she was brought to the Below City. Purely good intentions on Zrasha’s part, for she was no healer; but now it had become a dependency. Zrasha hadn’t realized just how potent the concentration of moon sugar had been, nor the unfortunate results it would later yield. A lesson well learned, thought the smiling khajiit.

“Tasmiit! La’Vuzmii has news girl!” The grey khajiit strolled into the room, arms raised in excitement. “Tasmiit shall become an apprentice, yes! Taza-jo has already begun preparations.”

The girl ceased her stretching at the announcement, immediately bounding over to La’Vuzmii as quickly as she could. She hugged the woman, her own face mirroring the grin that stretched across the khajiit’s face. Finally, she would be able to leave the Below City, to go out into the world that she could only scarcely remember in her dreams. And they would be proud of her, so very proud of their Tasmiit. She would no longer be some lowly cripple, but a real member of the family.

A family, like the one she could almost remember.

 

 

 

 

**END OF PART ONE: ACT I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of the posting of this chapter, I've gone back and edited a few things. Some names have been changed, and sections reordered to make more sense.
> 
> The stage has been set and the characters in place,  
> I'll see you folks soon with Act II :)
> 
> As always, please let me know if I've muffed up any spelling/grammar/etc.


End file.
